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Hallelujah at 5 a.m.
March 11th
I wake with the truth: you’re no longer my lover.
Beyoncé’s “Best Thing I Never Had” drives me into the shower at 5 a.m.
If you knew me, you’d know just how uncharacteristic this is.
My panties crumple at my feet. I unbuckle my watch band, turn the face toward me—
and there you are. One of your many faces.
The hot water stings, and I let it.
Memories of us flow. My brain likes them that way.
It always has.
It’s how I survived the many versions of you, when we were us.
Your towhead hair, disheveled but elegant, still wearing the shape of my hands—
reaches for the comfort of our familiar.
Morning, babe—coffee in hand. The way I like it.
Dark, one raw sugar, just enough cream to match my skin.
That detail always made me smile.
I told myself it meant you paid attention—your love language in action.
You sit shirtless, your “dad bod” fitting neatly into the 44mm screen,
your belly soft, spilling over the front of your Tommy Johns briefs.
K.D. Lang bathes us in the sultry notes of “Hallelujah.”
The longing is palpable.
Regret.
Questionable.
I close my eyes and let the warmth of the memory wash over me.
The tenderness. The care. The easy rhythm of us.
My fingers flinch at my side.
A phantom muscle memory—
the urge to reach for my phone.
To say something in the name of all that good.
But then, the shift.
The other memories.
The ones my brain works harder to bury.
The way I always let you have the last sip of coffee,
because I learned early that a small concession could keep the peace.
The way your belly spilled over your boxers as you sat there,
warm and familiar—
but also unmoving.
Waiting for me to cater, to orbit, to please.
The way Hallelujah wasn’t just longing and regret.
It was also a reminder of how easily you used love like a switchblade—
sometimes a gift,
sometimes a threat.
The shower is scalding now.
I turn the knob too fast, splashing cold against my skin.
My breath catches.
My thumb hovers over my phone’s keypad.
Today is your birthday.
I almost type the words.
Almost.
~
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